


sing us a song for me.

by Jolly Camaleonte (ginnyx)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: (i cant believe that drunk Rog is a tag!), Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Drunk Roger Taylor (Queen), Fluff without Plot, M/M, Pre-Queen, just a funny little thing, maracas, meet cute of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-12 19:52:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17473940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginnyx/pseuds/Jolly%20Camaleonte
Summary: You know, the song.The Song.The one only you and your soulmate know about? That one, all day stuck in his head. It would be annoying, except it’s such a good song? The bass and the drum are unbelievable in it? Anyway.[Alternate universe in which you and your soulmate have a song stuck in your head known only by the two of you.]





	sing us a song for me.

Roger was scuttling along the way with a sprint in his steps, mentally humming the song.

You know, the song.

 _The Song_.

The one only you and your soulmate know about? That one, all day stuck in his head. It would be annoying, except it’s such a good song? The bass and the drum are _unbelievable_ in it? Anyway.

It had taken _hours_ ~~half an hour~~ to convince Brian to give him the money, but those maracas were worth it.

(“It’s for the band! I call _band fund_!” “We don’t have a band fund, Rog, we don’t even have a bassist.”)

_So worth it._

Like, they were the best maracas that he’s ever heard? Such a full sound, _rich_ ; not like that blasted thing they owned, which was more akin to a cardboard box with three pebbles in it.

He had found it while going to the pub; on the way, there was this music store that was not bad at all –which meant that they knew London musicians: cheap stuff on the front, good on the back; decent prices; crazy hours.

The last point was fundamental because _it was late_. He had had to go to the pub, plead for the case (“Freddie would love it” “oh, come on, Freddie does also love those rags he drags b—", “you can give it to him!”, and that’s how you trick a people-pleaser) and then scurry back.

Roger had told the lad to put it aside for him, to wait for him but, _again_ , they knew London musicians.

He was dashing the last steps, when someone came out of the shop –so it was still open! He slipped in and the door closed behind him.

“Maracas!” the drummer announced, waving haphazardly the cash, still out of breath.

The guy at the counter blinked at him.

“Oh, it’s you. Sorry, I already sold them to that fella.”

“Wha—” he tried, but stopped to inhale, “ _why_.”

The man just shrugged: _they knew London musicians._

 **_(But we are not some_ ** **fucking _London musicians, we are—)_**

“Wait, what fella?”

“Uh, the one that just got out?”

Roger went running again.

 

˜

“Oh, come on!”

“I said no,” and John’s been saying it for a quite long time, like, fifteen minutes.

“C’mon, mate” also the stranger’s reply was staying the same.

John kept walking, he was almost at home, he could see the building from here.

“I can pay you even more!” the man voice did an almost impressing swing of tones.

John ignored him. _Almost there._

“What would you even DO with them?”

 _That_. That irritated him.

“The same as you, so shut up,” he muttered, under his breath, a little pissed.

“What are you, a professional maracas player?” the other surpassed him, stopping right in front of him.

John squared him from top to bottom.

“Because certainly _you are_ one, now.”

He slid past him and went to his front door.

 

It ended with the crazy blond screaming with those dreadful pipes of his from the street “DO YOU EVEN KNOW MARACAS?” and John opening the window just to give him the middle finger.

 

˜

Roger wasn’t drunk.

If he was drunk, he wouldn’t come up with such a brilliant idea; a completely wasted person passing in front of the music store wouldn’t even remember the damn maracas, let alone come up with a perfect plan to steal them back!

So Roger was not drunk, in front of the john house, at 1 am.

When the bloody john had given him the finger that evening, he did it from the first-floor window: how difficult could climbing up a single story be? There was also a fire escape right there!

Simple plan, best plan: breaking and entering at its finest, retrieving the maracas and leaving the money (he wasn’t a criminal!). There, what could go wrong? Roger had also waited five minutes to see if someone was still awake, but no movement, everything stayed dark. Everyone was asleep.

 

˜

 _Easy_ , he kept reminding himself after landing in the stranger’s living room, aided only by streetlights.

_Easy._

But he was nervous, and kind of gnawed by remorse? He had to be quick, find the damn maracas and go.

He started humming the song, to calm himself: he couldn’t see jack shit and even though he was moving _so fucking slow_ , he kicked something, on the floor. It gave out string sound.

Roger squinted: a bass?

He was robbing a bassist? Oh god, what if there was a corporation of them? The john would know it had been him because of the maracas, and then no bassist in London would ever want to give them the time of the day! Fuck, maybe Fred would be willing to learn the bass? Less possibility of microphone humping, but still…

 _Wait._ Wouldn’t be better to befriend the bassist that also owned the goddamn best maracas ever bestowed on Earth?

Roger was sitting on the sofa, still humming softly, in deep thought when the lights turned on.

He was briefly blinded and stumbled upright in total panic.

The john was looking at him, with a pan in his hand, menacingly but at the same time in… _awe?_

The pan was still in his grasp but laid on his shoulder, at rest. His mouth was slightly open.

“You”, he said, frowning.

“I’M SORRY!” the drummer spitted out immediately, “I swear that I just wanted the maracas, I didn’t know you were a bassist!”

“No,” he interrupted; he rubbed his eyes for a bit with is free hand –Roger suddenly noticed the other’s polka dot pajama.

“No, I mean—" the frown got bigger and the pan got lowered; “how do you know that song?”

“What song?”

Then it hit him.

_Oh._

_The Song._

The two just looked at each other for a minute, then burst out laughing.

 

˜

 

(They chatted till 4 in the morning.)

“By the way, I’m John Deacon: nice to meet you, Mr. _Maracas Enthusiast number 5_.”

“Only _five_? I broke and entered in your house, what does a guy have to do to become number one? ”

Even the polka dots smiled.

 

˜

So, apparently the john was a _John_ , and he was _his_ john, and a bassist too?

What more could you ask for?

(After all, The Song had a _killer_ bass riff.)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker! I'd be really thankful to anyone who would be nice enough to point at the mistakes.
> 
> Disclaimer: in this house we love and respect Roger Meddows Tayor.  
> I swear, Roger is an incredibly empathic, smart and talented human being. I know that and I believe that. So, this fic? It’s for fun! and it’s set when Roger was in his twenties, and drunk. So yeah, I’m in my twenties and I know how stupid I can get even without drinking.  
> NOT JUDGING HIS CHARACTER! NOT SAYING HE’S DUMB OR CRAZY.  
> Sorry, I know that’s an obvious thing to state, but I wanted to be sure.
> 
> >>> Real notes now!  
> -The idea for this AU comes from here: https://www.instagram.com/p/BsqWzgRF5iN/  
> My dear friend Sara (unlovelysara) pointed out to me and off I went + her friend Martina came up with the idea of John with a pan!  
> -There is so much shit in this I swear: the maracas thing of course came from that Queen video where Roger is lamenting the loss of his favorite maracas because Freddie threw them in the audience. And he said “it took me hours to steal them”, he didn’t actually steal them, but you know…  
> -the title comes from Green Day' song "song of the century"  
> -please, forgive me for all the bad puns


End file.
